One’s Itinerary
7.30am Woken by nanny. Cup of tea in bed. Put on dressing gown and slippers. Ice cold bath, walk back to bedroom whistling ‘Anything Goes’ whilst swinging washbag.
8.00am. Dress: flannel suit with old school tie. Join family in dining room. Light breakfast of kippers, kedgeree, black pudding, scrambled duck eggs, bacon and toast. Conversation revolves around the forthcoming gymkhana, the postponed village fete, the frightful weather, the repairs to the tennis court and the rascally escapades of Winston, the cheeky new kitten.
9.00am. Three pipes in the smoking room whilst mulling over The Times. Finish crossword in four minutes.
9.30am. Meeting with Hastings, the estate manager. Discuss poor drainage in the lower field. Shooting party plans laid.
10.00am. Work in the study. Rattle off new six chapters for ACES IN THEIR FACES, the new ‘Topper’ Smythe detective yarn.
11.00am. Assemble with servants on roof to fire cannon and raise Union Jack.
11.05am. Pot of Assam tea and two slices of Victoria Spongecake.
11.15am. Light a pipe and dictate four letters to secretary. First, a response to the Vicar’s request for a contribution towards restoring the church bells; the second, a warm communication to m’tutor reference a forthcoming reunion; the third, a letter to m’stockbroker; the fourth, a cheque for two hundred guineas to settle my younger brother’s gambling debts incurred in Cairo.
11.45am. Visit babies in nursery. Pick each up and say their names twice. Deposit back in cot.
11.50am. Take dogs out for brisk walk along estate borders. Soundly whip poacher caught in mantrap. Bag two pheasants for dinner. Accidentally shoot Winston the kitten dead as he breaks for cover. Inspect stables.
12.30pm. Lunch with wife and new neighbour, the Right Honorable Greater-Darling. Greater-Darling presses me to speak in the House about the Immigration Crisis. Tactfully decline: ship ‘em North, I say. Eat sparingly: cucumber soup, quail pate, salmon encroute, roast beef, pear tart, coffee and biscuits.
1.30pm. Toddle off to the links in the Bentley. Quick round with Bassington-Gimlet followed by a few snifters in the clubhouse. Drive home slightly squiffy, knocking village bobby off bike. Much amusement over his broken leg. ‘Not to worry yourself, sir, I’ve got two.’ That’s the spirit!
4.00pm. Tea on the verandah. Try to cheer children up with hand-puppet made from Winston’s bloodsoaked pelt. For some strange reason they appear upset. Note to tutor: toughen-up one’s offspring.
4.15pm. Detective Inspector Crumm calls with the news that my best friend - Nobel Prize winner Dr Angus McMingless, the famous scientist - has been found drowned in the village duck pond. Yet his lungs are full of saltwater and his hand clutched a new maritime cipher. I smoke a pipe and solve the crime. Loan Crumm the Bentley to apprehend the villain - one Professor Bosch-Hunnhider, a nasty foreigner recently arrived in the parish - before he flees the country. Wife understandably distressed at death of Dr Angus McWhatshisface - she needs to find replacement guest for next week’s High Sheriff’s dinner that we are hosting. Note to secretary: procure new best friend, English or Scots.
4.45pm. Try to escape from the village via disused railway tunnel but giant rubber ball bars my egress. Man in a bowler hat called Steed escorts me back home in a rainbow-coloured golf car. ‘What do you want?’ I demand. ‘Information,’ he replies, cryptically.
5.30pm. Stroll to church to admire the lychgate. Coincidentally arrive at the same time as Astrid, the Vicar’s energetic new au pair. Luckily I happen to be carrying a spare key so can show her the newly restored organ. She is very impressed and asks to play with it. I decide to take her under my wing.
7.00pm. Return home to catch ‘The Archers’ with family all seated around the radiogram. Sip a dry sherry before bouncing youngest children on foot ‘horsey’ style. ‘This is the way the gentlemen ride - whoops!’ Tarquin retrieved from hearth and dispatched to local hospital with nanny and a ten guinea note. Cracked skull, nothing serious.
8.00pm. Warm bath and dress for dinner. Quite informal tonight, only guest Duncan Manly-Fulsome, the famous London playwright. Great friend of the wife’s. Hmm.
8.30pm. Informal meal of braised pheasant breast, oak-smoked salmon and wild goose. Manly-Fulsome annoyingly dashing e.g. opening doors, oily flattery, new London jokes. Refuses billiards offer and suggests girly moonlight stroll by lake instead. Wife eagerly agrees.
9.30pm. Invent urgent visit to stables but secretly follow them to Folly. Accompanied by Hastings, both of us armed. Listen to Manly-Fulsome spout ghastly French love poetry for three minutes before accidentally shooting him. ‘Sorry darling, thought it was that damned fox again.’ Copious wailing and tears. Coroner summoned - m’golfing pal, Bassington-Gimlet - he quickly agrees everything ‘a tragic accident’.
10.30pm. Pipe in library with a small single malt. Glance through immaculate copy of ‘Ghost Stories’ by some fellow called Anon. Cross out irritating margin annotations by a ‘J.S.Le F’. Increasingly disturbed by outside noises. Note to gamekeeper: can we source quieter owls? Or remove voice boxes from existing ones?
11.00pm. Retire to bed chamber. Light candles. Furtive rustlings in ash-tree outside window. Draw curtains round four poster. Note to self: move to east wing? I shall not be incommoded.
12.00 Midnight. Grandfather clock in hall strikes thirteen. Windows snap open. Dusky hands resembling coarse whipcord part bed curtains --
A Typical Day In England
Non-British people frequently fall into the trap of believing that all English people are distantly related to the Queen, live in castles and possess inherited dukedoms. Unhappily this is untrue; there are insufficient dukedoms to go round. However, to correct stereotypical inaccuracies, I have painstakingly recorded my daily activities over a representative twenty-four period and present the evidence herewith. And forthwith. And hereafter. And -- (That’s enough withing and aftering. Ed.)